THE O.C.leaned back in his chair and lighted another cigarette.
"That's all Wilkinson," he said to the man standing beside his table in
the low, roofed iron hut at headquarters. " You are to deliver the package at
-----, in Paris, and await a reply ; and - don't forget for one moment the importance
of your mission."
Bud Wilkinson saluted and went out.
He was a fine specimen of what NZ can produce : tall, dark, intellectual
- he looked the embodiment of frank manhood ; yet in his eves there was a sadness,
born perhaps of the horrors of war that he had never quite got used to.
And Bud was homesick----desperately homesick for the hills and dales of his
own land. Perhaps the thought of a certain brown-eyed little girl had something to do with this. In the Somme
fighting at Messines, and elsewhere along the Front in France and
Flanders, he had seen her face in the battle-smoke ; and the picture that always came to him
was of brave eves holding back the tears as the big, grey transport swung out
from the crowded quay at Wellington. 0f late he had not heard from her. The other
fellows got letters ; but the usual answer to Bud's inquiry now was,
"Nothing for you Bud, you blighter; she's forgotten you -
sure!" And a laugh would go up all round.
"It'll be the fault of your d postal arrangements if she has," Bud would fling back, and he'd
stalk away with a jaunty air, but with his heart a little heavier than before.
Bud was charmed with Paris - with the splendid beauty of the city itself, and
the brightness of the people, even in war-time.
He delivered his message and got orders to report - again.
The little tables set outside the cafes looked inviting, and Bud sat down at one and ordered a drink. Sipping it, he
watched the crowds go by. There were uniforms of all descriptions, of every
nationality French, Russian, Serbian, Portuguese, American, and the picturesque Zouave. There were
men and women and girls; ladies taking out their dogs for a promenade, children with
their bonnes shrieking with delight at the Guignol, and there were little girls in their bridal-white just come
from taking their first Communion.
Bud sat there fascinated, but he felt lonely. He wished that he knew some one of those careless people
who were laughing and chatting with their friends and now and then throwing a
curious glance at the big, colonial smoking his cigarette. In the midst of these thoughts, Bud caught the
eyes of a girl sitting alone at a table near by. She dropped her gaze immediately. Bud never thought to ask himself why she was sitting there alone.
He only noticed that she was pale and quiet-looking, with a sweet face framed in fair hair drawn back, after the prevailing fashion of Parisiennes, and that her figure was shapely in its coat and skirt of dark blue. She passed out of sight among the trees, and Bud, with a little sigh, left for his hotel.
These strains, roared out to the
accompaniment of jingling glasses, greeted Bud as he reached the bar room of the
Hôtel Mont Rouge (in a not too reputable quarter), and indicated that the boys were not suffering from home-sickness or from thirst. Clouds of smoke
filled the place, and another burst welcomed Bud as he made his way across the
room.
" Hell, Bud, old chap" said one. "Where you been hiding ? Enjoyln'
yerself at the Morgue, or a-leadin' of the choir at the Maddaleena ? Have
a drink? Garsong, bring a whiskyand-soda for 'is Grace the Archbishop, and be
d------ quick about it! "'
"This is a bit better than the trenches, Bill," said Bud, as he tossed off the drink.
" You betcherlife," answered Bill, this is life. Met a little girl to-day, and we're going to meet again tonight-at the Olympia. Boys, I tell you, this place is some joke, and no mistake."
"Don't keep all the good
things to yourself," broke in red-headed Higgins of the A.L.H. " Why shouldn't I go to Olympia-and why
shouldn't Bud go too - why shouldn't we all go to Olympia ? What-d'you say. boys -shall it be Olympia ?
" Yes ! " they roared in chorus. And so Olympia it was.
'When they entered the music hall Bud gazed around him, dazzled by the glare, the novelty, and the
freedom so utterly different from anything in his own country. It was strange to be in such a pot pourri of
moist humanity. Here were people of every nationality. Next him a good
looking girl had a coal-black Senegalese beside her, and there were a couple of respectable French citizens, man and wife
apparently cracking their sides over the dubious antics of a performing ape. In a box were several officers. Girls
were everywhere, painted and rouged, all daughters of joy, brazen in their
attentions.
Young, strong, and full of the hot impulses of youth, Bud was no saint; but the fresh, free life of the King Country had welded into his makeup
something of itself and fostered the innate purity of his Scottish
ancestors. His nature shrank from these sordid exhibitions of human
weakness. In disgust, yet with a certain longing for companionship, he sought the foyer, and a drink. His eyes fell on a group gesticulating and talking excitedly, as
only French people can. Suddenly one of the- men struck the table
violently with his fist.
The waiters rushed up and in the twinkling of an
eye there was a fight. A woman in the group gave a little scream. As Bud
rushed up she turned towards him, and he saw the girl of the caf6 in the Champs
Elysees-the girl with the pale, sweet face, and the fair hair drawn back after the fashion of Parisiennes. She, too, recognised him. With a little sob she ran to him.
" Monsieur! she said. " Oh, monsieur ! with you I shall be safe."
Bud felt the hand on his arm tremble, and as he looked down from his great height he saw that her eyes were full of tears.
" Come, mademoiselle, I'll look after you," he said, and he led her away from the brawl. They went out into the open.
"Shall I take you home ? " he asked.
"If you would be so kind, monsieur," replied the girl, " I do not live so ver' far away.
Let us walk-si vous voulez."
" What was the row ? " asked Bud as they made their way along the boulevards. " Who was that big French fellow who seemed to be making all the trouble ? "
The girl trembled and cried.
" Monsieur, do not remind me of him. It is too terrible I Zere will come the day when I can bear it no longer, and zen I will throw myself into ze rivare."
She spoke with a pretty accent that Bud found charming.
They had passed beyond the boulevards and now arrived at a house in a street winding and ill-lighted.
The girl stopped at the door.
" Good night," she said, giving him her hand. " How can I ever zank you ? "
Bud fancied that her fingers clasped his with a gentle pressure. " But perhaps it was mere
fancy," he reflected.
" By letting me see you again," he cried. " Will you - and where ? "
" Mais, oui, " was her reply; " but I should like ver' much that I see you again. To-morrow you will find me perhaps at ze same
café as to-day." And with a smile and a nod she vanished.
Bud went home to his hotel whistling.
Some days passed, and Bud was still in Paris. He had called for orders, but had been told to report again. Each day he had seen Yvonne Deleartier.
Bud, like most colonial soldiers, was amply provided with money, and he meant to have a good
time.
Yvonne and Bud had dinner together, and afterwards they had taken a taxi along the Champs
Elysees. Bud had not made love to the girl, though he felt her attraction for him deepening. They had talked
much. Bud had told her of himself, of his hopes about the brown-eyed girl, of
his loneliness. Of Yvonne herself he did not learn much. She spoke little of her own life, but she was keen to know all about Bud's work, and asked endless questions in her quaint half English and half French.
One night they dined at a café in the Latin Quarter. Yvonne ordered the
dinner - she seemed to know the waiter. She had often dined there, she said, and the man had got to know her. After dinner they ordered liqueurs, and Bud, under the influence of the spirit, felt his heart
beating strangely under his tunic. They spoke of Bud's departure.
" You go away soon-yes ?"
she said, her eyes on his.
" I'm afraid so, Yvonne," said Bud, finding it difficult to control his hands.
Will you care, at all ? "
The soft eyes seemed to fill.
" I shall be-oh, so sorree, my Bood! You do not know 'ow I shall be sorree. I
'ave been so ver' 'appy these last days." And the lids drooped over the soft eyes. She raised them suddenly.
" When will you go she asked, gazing at him.
" Just so soon as I get a certain letter," said Bud.
When she looked at him his mind seemed to wander.
" Ah !"
Something in the word - something in her face : a shade of eagerness, perhaps, made Bud look up. But she was playing with the fastening of her bag.
And is it so important, zen, zis letter "-the voice tremblcd- so verree important zat you cannot stay
one little day longer wiz me ? "
" Don't tempt me, Yvonne. Don't make it hard; you know I have to yo. I'm on duty. Why-if I
didn't deliver that Iett . . . ! "
He stopped, realising that he had said more than he should have. But, after all, she was
only a little French girl - a dear, soft little girl; what could it matter ? Gee I But she was sweet--and she didn't want him to go I Bud felt as if he were walking on air.
" At least you will come to say goodbye when you 'ave received this letter that will take you from me?" she asked.
"You will not go without. I shall be so desolate that I see you not again. Promise zat you will
come," and she leaned forward and put her hand on Bud's.
"Allons! Let us drive," whispered Yvonne at length as they got up to go. The greasy waiter rushed forward to collect his pourboire. Bud left Yvonne for a moment
while he got his hat and stick.. She stood alone. The greasy waiter bustled around carrying dishes piled a yard high. Just as he was passing Yvonne a plate slipped and in his anxiety to save the others the whole lot went slithering to the ground. As
he stooped to pick up the debris it seemed to Bud that Yvonne spoke. It must have been imagination ; but he could have
sworn he heard a low voice say : " I shall not fail."
" Rubbish! Drink's a curse," he laughed to himself as he rejoined the girl.
They rode far that night, and Bud forgot his past loneliness - forgot his
duty - forgot that little sheep-run out near far-away Waimate - forgot the brown-eyed girl and all his hopes.
He only remembered that a woman was with him who fascinated him strangely -and that in a few days he would be
returning to the mud and loneliness of Flanders.
Next day Bud called to report, and got his letter. He was to return that day. The letter was to be delivered at once.
A young man of foreign appearance, sitting at a café not far
away got up as Bud passed, and noted the direction that he took. But
Bud didn't notice him; he didn't notice anything. He was thinking of Yvonne. He
had been thinking of her all night. He was to see her again that night. She had told him that they would be
alone - that Henri would be away.
The world swam when Bud thought of Yvonne. He felt that nothing on earth would stop him from
seeing her. Then, with a sudden contraction of the heart, he realised that
he must go by the train at seven. There were two trains : one later - at midnight; but
he should not stay for that one the letter must be delivered at once. When Bud realised this, all the devil in his composition rose up and wrestled with him. Never in his life before had Bud
Wilkinson been faced with such temptation. Good at the core, he knew himself for a slave to an influence that held him
as in a vice. He could not escape from it. Escape . . . ! Should he deny himself this last meeting with the woman whose kisses could make him forget everything : his
duty - his girl?
Pah. What did she care ? She'd forgotten him, probably, long ago; and so there
was no one to care what he did. By God ! He'd not give up this evening for anyone
! He'd take the midnight, and be dashed to the lot of them !
By this time it was afternoon, and Bud wandered aimlessly about the streets. He
felt lonely, and wished that he had old Bill with him. Anything would be better than this.
He did not know how he would in the hours till eight o'clock, when he was to see Yvonne, but
it had to be done somehow.
Going down the Rue de la Paix he met Bob Hayward.
" Hallo, there I " said Bob. " Where are you off to ? "
" Nowhere in particular," answered Bud. "I'm just killing time. I'm going back to-night."
" The devil you are! " replied Bob. "What time?~ "
Bud swallowed.- "Midnight," he said. So it was settled ; Brown-eyes had lost.
"Better come along with me to 'Blighty,' then," said Bob, taking Bud's arm.
" ' Blighty' What do you mean ? " said Bud.
" What ! " laughed Bob. " Don't you know 'Blighty' ? Why, it's 'a little bit o' Heaven, dropped from out the
skies'-a place where you can get the only decent cup o' tea you'll find in
Paree. It's a home from home ; a little bit of orlright, is Blighty ! "
So saying, Bob took hold of Bud, and together they walked down the street. Bud followed Bob
mechanically. He didn't much care what he did, so long as he could put in time
till the evening.
Going up the escalier at 20 Place Vendôme Bud heard a girl singing. Music
always affected him, and he stopped at the top of the stairs to listen.
" Gee I But she had a sweet voice ! " The room he looked into was full of soldiers. Some were reading, some drinking, some playing
cards; all looked happy. There were women, too, flitting about in light
colourcd dresses. The room was a pleasant one. There were books and papers and
comfortable chairs. It all looked so homely; and Bud had almost forgotten what
home was like.
A lump came up in his throat. He forgot that he was in Paris, where nobody cared. He saw again the gorges, the green trees, the flax plants of his own homeland, the little homestead where his parents lived, his young sisters, the old father too feeble in health to come farther than the
gate to say good-bye, and his mother packing his kit and telling him she was really proud of him for volunteering and glad that he was
going - yet very moist about the eyes.
A woman came out from some room that seemed to be a kitchen. She had an apron
on, and carried a pot of jam. " Something nice for your tea," she smiled at Bud, holding it up, " and not plum either."
Bud's eyes moistened. Somehow she reminded him of his mother.
Just then a woman with a merry face came out and called :
" Tea, boys, tea ! Come along
And catching sight of Bud standing uncertain whether to go in or cut and run, she came forward with
outstretched hand and a welcome that warmed the cockles of his heart.
" Good afternoon! I don't think I know you - do I ? But any way, welcome to 'Blighty.' We're just going to have tea. Come, boys!" And marshalling them before her like chickens, she shoo'd them all into another room.
The lady who waited on Bud must have understood something of his temperament, for before long Bud found himself talking to her in a friendly way. He told her about that brown-eyed girl. Maybe her own brown eyes reminded him of her.
" Guess she's forgotten me," he said. " It's a long time since I've heard from her."
"Not a bit of it," said the lady, twinkling at him, for she thought that the good-looking young man opposite would not be easily forgotten. " You may depend
on it, she's thinking of you every day; probably making little things for that little homestead on the run you've told me of. You trust her. Women sometimes have a harder time than you men. I like her face." Bud had fished out a photograph. " She looks as if she would be thinking of you this very minute," said the lady with a smile, the brown eyes dancing at him-so like those other eyes. "
She's waiting for you, I know - dying for the war to finish.
Just at that moment the girl in the next room started singing again. The tune was " Tipperary."
The seven o'clock train that night pulled out of the Gare du Nord to time. In one corner of a smoker sat a man looking out of the window. As the last of Paris passed from
sight he heaved a sigh and lighted a cigarette. The man was Bud Wilkinson.
That same night, late, three people met in a dark, stuffy room in
Montmartre. One was a man of unattractive appearance - the waiter.
"So this time you've failed," he said, addressing the woman.
"Yes," she answered, " I've failed."
As she raised her head the fitful gleam of the lamp shone on her. She was a woman with a pale, sweet face, and fair hair drawn back simply, after the prevailing fashion of
Parisiennes.
E. A. R. |
